WHAT WOMAN AND AND MAN MUST BECOME FOR ONE ANOTHER

WHAT WOMAN AND AND MAN MUST BECOME FOR ONE ANOTHER

In the beginning,
there was no throne between them.

There was earth,
breath,
a garden still innocent of accusation,
and two human beings discovering
that existence was not meant to be lived alone.

Woman stood before man,
and man stood before woman,
not yet as ruler and ruled,
not as victor and defeated,
not as possession and possessor,
but as mystery before mystery,
image of God before image of God.

And perhaps this was the first lesson humanity was meant to learn:

the other was never given to us to stand beneath us,
but to stand before us.

Face to face.

Near enough to be known.
Free enough to be loved.

Then came the fracture.

The fruit was taken,
the eyes were opened,
the hiding began.

And when God asked what had happened,
humanity discovered one of its oldest languages:

blame.

The man pointed toward the woman.
The woman pointed toward the serpent.
And from that garden outward,
through kingdoms and households,
through temples and courts,
through customs, laws, marriages, markets, and wars,
the pointing finger traveled.

Someone must be responsible.
Someone must be weaker.
Someone must obey.
Someone must stand above.
Someone must stand below.

And slowly,
difference became hierarchy,
strength became permission,
tradition became justification,
and power learned how to disguise itself
as the natural order of things.

Women carried wounds from this history.

Silenced voices.
Closed schools.
Lost inheritances.
Bodies governed by others.
Gifts dismissed before they could flower.
Names disappearing behind the names of men.

Yet men were wounded too—

taught that tenderness was weakness,
that tears betrayed masculinity,
that worth must be earned through conquest,
that authority meant control,
that failure to dominate meant failure to be a man.

Thus one half of humanity was often taught to submit,
while the other was taught that it must never kneel.

And both forgot Christ.
For Christ knelt.

He wrapped a towel around himself
and washed feet.

He touched those society would not touch.
He listened to women others dismissed.
He spoke with the Samaritan at the well.
He defended the accused.
He welcomed the forgotten.
He placed children among the powerful
and told the powerful to become like them.

And when his disciples dreamed of greatness,
he dismantled their dream:

Do not become like those
who lord their power over others.

It shall not be so among you.
It shall not be so among you.

Perhaps those words must still travel
into every marriage,
every church,
every parliament,
every corporation,
every classroom,
every kitchen,
every pulpit,
every movement demanding liberation.

It shall not be so among you.

Woman was not created
so man could become greater.

Man was not created
so woman could become greater.

Neither liberation nor redemption
requires another human being
to become smaller.

The healing of woman
does not require the humiliation of man.

The healing of man
does not require the submission of woman.

There must be another way.
And there is.
The Cross.

The strange throne
upon which power refuses to dominate.

The place where superiority loses its crown.

The place where accusation exhausts itself
against forgiveness.

The place where God does not ask,
Who can conquer the other?

but,
Who will love the other?
So bring the ancient quarrel here.

Bring Adam's accusation.
Bring Eve's wound.

Bring every law that declared one less capable.
Bring every theology that baptized domination.

Bring every insult thrown back in retaliation.
Bring misogyny.
Bring misandry.

Bring the father's fear of losing authority
and the daughter's memory of being silenced.

Bring the mother's wounds
and the son's confusion.

Bring centuries of resentment.
Bring them beneath the Cross.

Because humanity cannot heal
by exchanging the occupants of the throne.

The throne itself must come down.

Woman and man must become something greater
than competitors for power.

They must become witnesses
to one another's humanity.

Guardians of one another's dignity.
Listeners to one another's wounds.

Defenders of one another's freedom.
Correctors of one another's blindness.

Bearers of one another's burdens.
Celebrants of one another's gifts.

And when one has been silenced,
the other must help recover the voice.

When one has been wounded,
the other must refuse to exploit the wound.

When one has been excluded,
the other must make room.

When one possesses power,
power must become service.

When one is afraid,
the other must not turn fear into leverage.

When one succeeds,
the other need not become smaller.

This is equality becoming mature.

Not sameness.
Not rivalry.

Not the endless arithmetic
of who suffered more,
who owes more,
who controls more,
who deserves the final word.

But mutuality.

The difficult holiness
of standing face to face
without demanding that the other kneel.

Perhaps this is what the daughters of Zelophehad understood
when they stood before Moses and spoke.

Perhaps this is what Vashti's refusal still whispers:
there are moments when dignity must say no.

Perhaps Esther teaches the other half:
there are moments when dignity must enter the room
and risk everything for another.

Perhaps every generation must discover anew
that equality is not completed
when the excluded finally enter the house.

The house itself must learn
a different way of living.

And so the great question before us
is no longer merely:

What may a woman become?

Everything her gifts, conscience, calling,
and humanity permit her to become.

Nor merely:
What may a man become?

Everything his gifts, conscience, calling,
and humanity permit him to become.

The greater question is:
What must they become for one another?

Neighbor.
Not master.

Not servant.
Not possession.

Not threat.
Not stereotype.

Not historical defendant.
Not historical prosecutor.

Neighbor.

The one whose dignity places a claim upon my conscience.
The one whose freedom does not diminish mine.
The one whose flourishing enlarges our common world.
The one whose difference asks not for fear
but for encounter.

And perhaps when woman can look upon man
without remembering only the hand that ruled,

and man can look upon woman
without fearing the equality that stands before him,
something ancient will begin to heal.

Not Eden restored by nostalgia.
Something harder.

Eden remembered
through people who have known exile.

A garden rebuilt
by those who understand what domination costs.

A companionship no longer innocent,
but wise.

And beneath the Tree of the Cross,
perhaps woman and man will finally understand
what the first garden was trying to teach them:

You were never given to one another
so that one could become the world
and the other merely live within it.

You were given to one another
so that together
you might make the world more human.

And if history began
with woman and man standing before one another,

perhaps redemption will be recognized
when they can stand there again—

without accusation in the hand,
without superiority in the heart,
without chains at either one's feet,
without a throne between them.

Only the Cross above them.
The earth beneath them.
The neighbor before them.
And God,

once again,
calling both very good.

Pastor Steven G. Lee
St. GMC Corps
September 3, 2026

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/gloria-steinem-dies-age-92-feminist-ms-magazine/ ___Gloria Steinem, trailblazing figure in women's liberation movement, dies at age 92
Updated on: September 3, 2026 / 8:15 AM EDT / CBS News

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/09/03/us/politics/gloria-steinem-dead.html ___Gloria Steinem, Personification of the Women’s Movement, dies at 92